Todays featured poem is by Daniel P. Barbare. A dramatic piece, utilising a staccato meter and original imagery, this is both humorous and philosophical in it’s nature. Daniel takes a familiar, almost mundane task which many take for granted, cutting the grass, and manages to step back and look at it in a completely different, original manner, twisting and turning it into a metaphysical comment upon the meaning of mans struggle with nature. Simple in it’s construction, but vastly complex and surprising in it’s execution.

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Time for another piece by John Ashleigh today. It’s been a while since we last featured this writer, and this piece is of his usual high standard of work. An astute observation of nature (one of John’s signature aspects of his poetry), this piece is highly reverential, whilst at the same time analytic of the position of the observer, both spatial and metaphysical. A concise piece, highly effective and beautifully constructed.

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Why, Red Acer, do you shed your leaves?
Your unveiled beauty still young in the mind,
The pique of winter rousing thieves.
Why, Red Acer, do you shed your leaves?
A devoted eye which still perceives
The charm that society might not find.
Why, Red Acer, do you shed your leaves?
Your unveiled beauty still young in the mind.

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There is nothing like watching the
Sakura fall onto the shallow cobbles –
Or the bamboo grass turning white.
As those cherry blossoms are trampled
By the horses tread and cart:
The ever-falling rain will begin –
And the tears are carried.
Dark and grey the clouds will turn –
And the cicadas will no longer churn.
The start of a new day.
Pink Sakura obscure the floors –
Amongst the healthy bamboo grass.

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Watching,
the brush strokes of the painter,
on this empty, elegant canvas.
A broad sweep of the brush,
then another and another.
Grass, gorse, heather,
And that perfectly autumnal brown…bracken.
For summers gone,and the moor breathes out,
relaxing luxuriously,just like
the fanning, dripping, ferns
and almost luminous grey green lichen,
of the hidden woods,
in the secret valleys of all time.

Firstly sketching the bare bones
of the toors,the sentinal toors.
Carboniferous and permian,Devonian style,
quartz and feltzite glinting,
so many greys and greens,
to mix with rain washed blue.

A distant Menhir,a stone man,
looks on and through time,
reminding him of his insignificance.

Wrapped up warm against this chill october,
cooler still on this high moor,
always a thousand feet above,
rivulets,streams merging now
into the ancient river Dart.
Giggling like a teenager,
shallow,broad,dark and beyond years.
Movement portrayed by clean,white,blue, quick strokes,
clearly heard from far above,
this deep wooded valley.

The painter sits and looks and waits.
For one more thing…..light.
Light changing with elemental speed,
undrawing a curtain across the moor…
the best clouds come…
grey, white,black with sun between..
majesticaly striding on and on….

and quickly sketching not to miss,
a solitary rider through the bracken,
sidestepping down a riven slope,
on a further field of view,
completing the picture.